The Emerald Comb (13 page)

‘Oh, would you, please? Anything to stop this torture.’

Georgia straightened up, took the damp cloth from Agnes and wiped her mouth. She looked green and haggard. She was too delicate to bear a child, Agnes thought. Now if
she
was pregnant with Mr Bartholomew’s child, she would be blooming with health at this stage. For a moment she allowed herself the fantasy – a baby in her arms and Mr Bartholomew looking on as a proud father. But it would not happen. She was careful, always, that she should not fall pregnant. For all the while there was no outward, visible sign of their affair, they could continue it. Mr Bartholomew still crept up to Agnes’s room two or three times a week, sometimes coming straight from his wife’s room to hers. But if she were to get caught… Agnes shook her head slightly to stop the thoughts. If that happened she would lose the man she loved, and that, she thought, she could never bear.

‘What is it? You look suddenly sad,’ said Georgia, as she splashed her face with cold water from a basin.

Agnes shook her head, and pasted a smile onto her face. ‘No, ma’am, I’m not sad. Are you feeling better? I’ll help you dress and then I’ll make that potion for your sickness. You should take a walk along the sea front. The fresh air will do you good.’

‘You’re so wise, Aggie.’ Georgia rubbed her face with a towel and smiled. ‘What would I do without you?’

I know what I’d do without you, thought Agnes. I’d claim your husband for my own. She said nothing, but busied herself clearing away the bowl of vomit and laying out Georgia’s clothes. It was a fine day. Perhaps she’d be able to walk on the sea front herself later on, if the master and mistress went out for a while.

When Georgia was dressed and had gone downstairs to breakfast, still declaring she would not be able to eat a thing, Agnes went to the kitchen to collect some ginger and various herbs from Mrs Simmonds, the cook-cum-housekeeper, then took them up to her room, along with a flask of water. She laid the ingredients out on a small table, and opened up her herbalist’s box, from which she removed a small bottle. Her hand hovered over a small box of powder, and she bit her lip as she remembered something her mother had taught her…

She returned to the table, and began chopping the herbs finely and mixing them with some crushed ginger in a little water. When she had made a watery paste she picked up the little bottle, ready to decant the mixture into it. She bit her lip once more, then looked back at her box. If the mistress were to have a baby, it would change things. All the while Georgia was pregnant, Mr St Clair would no doubt come to her, Agnes, for his comforts even more than usual. But afterwards, as a father, a family man, perhaps he would no longer want to keep her as a mistress. Perhaps he would then want to be faithful to his wife, the mother of his child, and would cast Agnes aside like a worn-out coat.

She could not allow that to happen. She took out the box of powder and considered it. Angelica root and dried pennyroyal leaves. Nothing very exotic but if her mother was right about their effects on a pregnant woman… Could she do that to her beloved young mistress? Hurt her, cause pain and grief, to keep her affair with Mr St Clair going? It was a hard decision to make. But she would do anything to keep him. Anything.

When she’d finished bottling the potion, she took it to Georgia’s room. Once more she hesitated, putting the bottle back into her pocket, until, pressing her lips together firmly she took it out again and placed it on the washstand. It would certainly ease the girl’s morning sickness and, after all, wasn’t that what she’d been asked to do? In any case, Georgia was too young and delicate for child-bearing. She was doing this for overall health of her mistress. Yes, it was all for the best.

Next morning, she mixed some of the potion with water and gave it to Georgia to drink before she got out of bed.

‘It’s mostly ginger, ma’am’ she told the girl. ‘With a few other things mixed in. ’Twill settle your stomach afore you rise, and will stop the sickness.’

Georgia drank it quickly and grimaced. ‘Ugh, that’s quite unpleasant. I can taste the ginger but there’s something else in there as well, I do believe. Mint perhaps? Where did you learn this recipe?’

‘From my mother, ma’am. She is a herbalist as I think I have told you before. In her village she is called on to make potions for all sorts of ailments. I have learned some of her skills.’ Agnes turned away as she spoke.

‘Well, I am most grateful to her for teaching you. Should I get out of bed now or stay here a while longer?’

‘Give it a few minutes to take effect, while I get your clothes ready for the day.’

Later, when Georgia had risen, dressed and was downstairs eating a hearty breakfast, Agnes slumped down on her mistress’s bed. The ginger had worked, and Georgia had not felt queasy, but what of the other ingredients? Would they work in the way her mother had taught her?

Two weeks later, the couple were hosting a dinner party. Agnes had let out Georgia’s best, deep red satin gown for the occasion. Although she did not yet have a baby bump, her waist had thickened and her breasts swollen. Thankfully the seams of the gown were generous enough to allow it to be let out, but it wouldn’t fit her for long. Georgia’s long, pale gold hair was piled high on her head in a complicated arrangement of curls. The silver and emerald hair comb held up the back of her hair, its jewels catching the light whenever she moved. Agnes was pleased with the effect.

‘You look so beautiful, ma’am,’ she told Georgia, who was seated at her dressing table putting the finishing touches to her outfit. ‘You will have a splendid evening.’

‘Bartholomew is going to tell our friends this evening, that we are expecting a child,’ Georgia said, smiling happily and admiring her reflection in the mirror. She fastened on a pair of emerald earrings. A distant clock struck the hour, and both women listened and counted. ‘Eight o’clock – our guests will soon arrive. I must go down.’ She stood and smoothed her skirts, patted her hair and left the room.

Agnes pottered about tidying up and, as so often, wondered what it would be like to be the lady of the house. How well
she
would look in that ruby-red gown. How witty and charming
she
would be, to Bartholomew’s friends. She sighed. It could never be.

Bartholomew stood in the drawing room, welcoming his guests as they arrived for the dinner party. The maid-of-all-work, Polly, had put on her smartest uniform and a clean cap, and was answering the door and showing them in. Bartholomew was delighted with Georgia’s appearance when she came downstairs. The deep red dress looked stunning against her pale blonde hair. She was blooming – he liked her fuller figure. Pregnancy suited her. Well, as far as he was concerned, they could have a large family. Georgia had said how much she wanted children and as there was always Agnes to turn to while Georgia was indisposed, there seemed to be no reason not to have a string of children. One a year, perhaps. With Georgia’s inheritance they easily had enough money.

The first guest to arrive was elderly Mrs Oliphant, a neighbour of Georgia’s uncle. Bartholomew’s heart sank; he’d been hoping Henry Harding and his wife would arrive first. Mrs Oliphant was a widow who spent her time nosing amongst the affairs of others. She was wearing an enormous black gown, with several strings of pearls draped around her fleshy neck.

‘Welcome, my dear Mrs Oliphant. I trust you are well?’ He gave a small bow and raised her offered hand to his lips.

‘Tolerably so, Mr St Clair. But suffering in this August heat. How I long for the cool autumn days. Mrs St Clair, Georgia, my dear, you are looking remarkably well! You’ve put on a few pounds, I believe, and it suits you. I never did hold with young women being too thin.’

Georgia blushed. ‘I am indeed very well, Mrs Oliphant. I find the summer warmth more to my liking than you, perhaps. I do so like to be able to stroll along the beach and watch the bathers.’

Mrs Oliphant shuddered. ‘Another thing I don’t hold with – sea bathing. If God had meant us to swim, he’d have given us flippers like a seal. I do hope you don’t bathe yourself? It’s really not becoming for a young woman in your station in life.’

Georgia was spared from having to admit that she had indeed tried sea-bathing, by the arrival of Polly announcing more guests. It was Henry and Caroline Harding. Bartholomew greeted his old friend warmly, while Caroline, who wore a simple pale blue gown trimmed with ivory lace, joined the women.

‘What news, old man?’ said Henry, clapping Bartholomew on the back. ‘How’s married life suiting you? Your wife is looking more radiant than ever. I’d say marriage is suiting
her
, all right. She’ll be providing you with a son and heir before too long, I’d say.’

‘We’re both very happy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And you may very well be right about that son and heir.’ He gestured to Polly to pour them all a glass of sherry. Harding glanced towards Georgia and raised his eyebrows. She blushed and instinctively put a hand to her midriff.

‘Ah, congratulations are in order, I see,’ said Harding to Bartholomew, in a low voice. ‘Or are you keeping it quiet for a while?’

‘We may announce it later tonight. Charles Holland is coming, and he should hear it first. After all, Georgia’s his only niece, and if she has a son, Holland may very well want to make the child his heir, too.’

‘Which is all good, what?’ said Henry. ‘I heard your doorbell just now. I suppose that might be Holland arriving.’

It was. Polly showed the old man in. He slumped immediately into a chair, puffing breathlessly.

‘St Clair, a brandy, if you would, to revive me.’

‘Of course. Polly, brandy for Mr Holland.’

‘Are you quite well, Mr Holland?’ asked Mrs Oliphant. ‘Did you walk here, perhaps? It is too warm to be out walking. I don’t hold with doing anything much in this heat. You would have been wise to take a cab, as I did. It is a long way here from Brunswick.’

‘I did take a cab. It’s those darned steep steps up to St Clair’s front door which has me gasping. Ah, brandy, thank you.’ He took the glass from Polly and gulped it down, causing him to cough uncontrollably. Georgia rushed to his side and helped him pull a handkerchief from his pocket to cough into.

‘Uncle, are you sure the brandy helps? I fear it makes you cough so, it can’t be good for you.’

‘Nonsense, it’s the exertion of climbing those steps which made me cough. I shall be quite all right in a moment.’ He waved his glass at Polly. ‘Keep it filled, there’s a good girl.’

The dinner party progressed well. They dined on pheasant, quails’ eggs and fresh plums. As he’d predicted, with a constant supply of brandy and no further physical exertion, Holland had no more coughing fits. Bartholomew thought, however, that he looked greyer and somehow diminished since the wedding. Mrs Oliphant kept up a constant stream of disapproving chatter about the things she didn’t hold with. Bartholomew was tempted to ask her, just what
do
you approve of? but restrained himself, and engaged Henry Harding in a discussion about the new railways which were being built in the north of the country, and whether or not to invest in the various newly-formed railway companies.

‘They’ll build some down here before too long,’ said Henry. ‘A London to Brighton line, perhaps. Imagine, you’d be able to get to town in just two or three hours.’

‘That’d be marvellous for business,’ agreed Bartholomew. ‘But surely it’d be too expensive to build. It’s not like in the north-east, where there’s coal to be shifted from mines to ports. We’ve no need for a railway here in the south. I’ll not invest in them, that’s for sure.’

He was interrupted by Mrs Oliphant, who was sitting to his right. ‘Mr St Clair, I think you should attend to your wife. She is looking unwell. With all your business talk with Mr Harding, you have failed to notice. I must say, I don’t hold with business talk at the dinner table.’

Bartholomew glanced at Georgia who was at the opposite end of the table. She was indeed looking pale, and was leaning over the table, clutching at her stomach. Mrs Harding was holding her hand and murmuring sympathetically.

He jumped to his feet and went to her. ‘My dear, are you all right? Did something we ate disagree with you, perhaps?’

She groaned. ‘I don’t know. It hurts – like someone is stabbing me… ohhhh!’

‘There, there, do you feel sick?’ asked Caroline Harding.

‘No, just… ohhhh. Fetch Agnes, Bartholomew. She’ll know what to do.’

He had already rung the bell. Polly answered, and rushed away at once to fetch Agnes.

By the time Agnes arrived, Georgia was doubled up on a small sofa, moaning. She would not let anyone near her. Agnes rushed to her side, and held a whispered conversation. She said something to Georgia which made her moan again, and thump a cushion in despair.

Agnes stood, and turned to Bartholomew. Her face was drawn and shocked.

‘Sir, I fear your wife is losing the baby. We must get her upstairs to bed. Please send for a doctor, immediately.’

Bartholomew felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut. So many women lost the babies they were carrying, but this one was
his
baby, and he had not considered the possibility that it could be lost, so early on. He’d only just got used to the idea of becoming a father. And what if losing this child left Georgia unable to have any more? What would be the point of his marriage if not to produce children?

He felt a gentle shake of his shoulder. It was Henry Harding. ‘St Clair? Come on, man, collect yourself.’

He shook the thoughts away, and called to Polly to run to fetch Dr Stockett, who lived but a few streets away.

Agnes and Caroline Harding helped Georgia to her feet, and with one woman on either side of her, managed to get her to walk, bent over, to the stairs. It was slow progress going up, as she stopped to groan every few steps.

Charles Holland announced he was no use at all in female crises, so if someone would call him a cab, he’d quietly drink brandy until it arrived to take him home. Mrs Oliphant tutted and said she didn’t hold with drinking too much brandy, neither did she hold with young wives getting pregnant too early in their married lives, as it so often ended this way. She decided to share Holland’s cab back to Brunswick.